Awaiting the Dawn
by SeaFever2006
Summary: The High King is dead and his 12 year old daughter is on the throne. Turmoil rises as the power hungry plot against the crown. Can the Kingdom of Gondor survive? Please R
1. Chapter 1

_Five hundred years have passed since the War of the Ring. The wounds made by Sauron have long healed. Though much light and beauty has passed away with the leave taking of the Elves, much has been restored. The folk of Middle Earth are free to live without fear of the Shadow. The Dominion of Men has come full circle. The glory of the Kings of Men has not burned so bright since the days of Númenor and the heirs of Aragorn Telcontar have ruled the Reunited Kingdom for many generations. But now that bliss has shattered…_

_The High King is dead._

oOo

The glittering visage of Minas Tirith stood in stark contrast to the low grey sky that poured countless tears on the City of Kings. The whole of heaven seemed to weep for him. The streets were silent and deserted. The only folk to be seen were the Wearers of Black and Silver, the Guards of the Citadel, who stood motionless in the pouring rain.

Far below the Tower Hall, behind Fen Hollen, stood a child. The Hallows echoed with her weeping as she stood there, swathed in a gown the color of midnight. A slender circlet of mithril rested on her head, glittering in the sad torch light. The child was none other than the Lady Elestirnë, the only child of King Elendur, High King of Gondor and Arnor. She wept bitterly as she stood at the foot of the tomb. Her father's tomb.

Only twelve summers old, the young Elestirnë was now alone in the world. Her mother, Queen Faelwen had leapt to her death, driven mad with grief over the death of her lord and king, leaving her only child alone.

To darken her fate, King Elendur had no other heir to speak of; no son, no brother, no nephew. The fate of his kingdom now rested on the shoulders of his twelve-year-old daughter.

oOo

The mood about the palace had been one of shock and grief for the past week, but that now began to change, roiling into tension. The fate of a kingdom was at stake, indeed the fate of Middle Earth itself.

Within the Tower Hall, the late king's advisors had gathered. The discussion had quickly escalated to an argument that rang through the hall. Even those who deigned not to raise their voices were clearly at their wit's end.

"Elestirnë alone has claim to the throne of Gondor. No one here can deny that," said the Steward. He could hardly believe his eyes and ears, for it seemed that defending his sovereign was a losing battle. Much to his bewilderment, few seemed to have faith in Elestirnë. The Steward did, he reflected, have some claim to the governance of this kingdom. Had that claim not ruled over it when the King had fallen in times passed? But he could not claim the throne unless the fallen King was childless.

"My Lord Steward," said another, "she is only a child. She is still tended by a nursemaid for pity's sake! She has not the means to govern."

"That is not for us to decide." the steward said hotly. "Elestirnë has been raised to rule from the cradle. With guidance, she will become a monarch."

"And until then?"

oOo

Thoronhael, young lore master's apprentice and teacher of the king's household, stood alone in the great library of Minas Tirith. Sighing raggedly, he dragged his eyes from the window and looked about. The library lay in musky dimness, lit only by a torch on the far wall and a tiny lamp that cast its meager light only on the table where it sat.

With slow exhausted steps, Thoronhael trudged over to that table and gazed at the loose leaves of parchment strewn over it.

_What's this?_

Reaching, he gently pulled a sheet out from under the others.

On the fine vellum, his young pupil had scrawled over and over again, practicing her penmanship. Repeatedly, young Elestirnë had signed her name in the mode of the ancient Númenoreans, in the manner of a queen:

_Tar Elestirnë _

Tears stung his eyes, and he turned away.

_How did it come to this?_

_oOo_

The Steward walked swiftly down the corridor of the Royal Apartments, seeking his young queen. He reached a familiar door and knocked softly.

"The Steward here to see Queen Elestirnë."

The door opened to reveal Ivoreth, Elestirnë's nurse-governess. Her round face, the Steward now saw, was devoid of its usual smile and she looked quite cross. She curtsied.

"M'lord, I'm sorry, but Elestirnë is not here, and has not been for some time."

"Where is she, governess?" asked the Steward.

"Last I heard, she had locked herself in the Hallows," said Ivoreth, shaking her head.

"She has gone from there now."

"Then might I ask you, Lord Steward, to stop bothering here and search for her?" said Ivoreth saucily. Clearly, he had outstayed his welcome in the woman's domain. He did feel a bit miffed, however, that the woman should address the Steward of Minas Tirith in such a forward manner, until he remembered that Ivoreth was now in charge of all domestic business in the Royal household since Queen Faelwen's death.

"Forgive me, governess."

oOo

Thoronhael was walking swiftly under the terrace's stone arches, headed for the Tower Hall, when he spotted his young queen in the courtyard. The rain had stopped and the storm was whipped apart to reveal patches of blue sky. Clouds muted the sun's light.

Elestirnë stood on the edge of the great stone ledge whose base, carved from the bones of the mountain, rose like a massive ship's prow out of the earth. Her back was turned to him, and her form was still.

Thoronhael stood agonizing for a long moment, wanting to say something, but not daring to do so. His heart leapt into his throat as he stood there and a silent dread crept over him.

Not five days earlier, Elestirnë's mother, Queen Faelwen had stood in that same spot and, being startled by an unexpected word from Thoronhael, she had thrown herself from the cliff and fallen to her death.

Thoronhael was spared from his mental anguish when Elestirnë turned from her reverie and walked back towards him. She didn't seem to notice him and stopped before coming too near. She stood on the edge of the circular green lawn, gazing up at the White Tree. It was high spring and the Tree was in full blossom. Each bloom looked to be wrought of pearl and shed rain from its petals like drops of liquid crystal. The Tree alone, it seemed, showed no signs of grief, but stood as stately and glorious as ever on its emerald sward.

Thoronhael came forward slowly and cautiously until he and his child queen stood opposite each other.

"It mocks me." he heard her say. It was a voice entirely unlike her own. Contorted by grief and contempt, it seemed to come from another world.

It was then that she looked on him for the first time since he'd spotted her. Her gray eyes shone with tears, but none fell.

Thoronhael opened his mouth to speak but could find nothing worth saying.  
Without another word, Elestirnë walked around the lawn and past him. The teacher followed at a respectful distance.

Tutor and pupil left the courtyard and entered the Royal Apartments in silence.  
Elestirnë walked slowly down the hall and into one of the rooms.

It was a study of sorts, furnished with a huge desk and an ornate chair. Tapestries hung on the west wall and a large bank of soaring windows graced the east.  
The door was left ajar as the maiden floated to a window. She said nothing, but stared out to the horizon in utter silence.

Thoronhael stood helplessly for an instant before turning to leave. It was then that he saw the Steward walking towards him; they met on the threshold. Thoronhael nodded in respectful reverence.

"I take my leave," he said with a quick bow and passed out of the door and down the hall.

The Steward stood unnoticed for a long moment before Elestirnë turned towards him.

Now that a black veil no longer hid her features, the steward saw how pale and fragile she looked. While still terribly young, there seemed to be something aged about her now, with lifeless eyes that looked out on the world without hope. Rimmed with dark circles, the only light there now was the glistening of tears, as if the child's soul had withered.

Elestirnë wore no crown or coronet and her dark tresses hung loose about her tiny frame. The hem of her dark gown pooled on the floor at her feet. There was something horrifying about Elestirnë's appearance for the man that had known the princess since the day she was born. No longer was Minas Tirith graced with the light of a cheerful, beautiful child who flitted about in white or the fair colors of spring and whose laugh could charm a beast. Instead, she was replaced by this shadow of youth who seemed to be fading before their eyes.

The Steward waited silently until the young girl turned toward him, and then began to speak. "Elestirnë, my Queen," he said gently. Calling her by this title did not yet come instinctively to Harandor, and he had made it a point with himself to use the girl's title, almost as a way of affirming his support for her in the council. Elestirnë must have heard the Steward speak but she gave no sign, not even lifting her downcast eyes. Harandor paused awkwardly, wondering if this was really the time to speak to her of such matters. But this was the very purpose that he had come to her for, and having started, the Steward knew he must continue.

Before he could carry on, Elestirnë raised her lowered head slightly and asked a simple "Yes?" Harandor felt slightly relieved. Even in her grief, she would still listen and pay attention for the moment. In a quiet voice, the Steward continued, "I know that all the realm is in grief and sorrow, but none more than you. I understand that the time for mourning has not yet passed and that you will carry this pain with you forever, but as Steward, it comes to my duty to speak to you of your kingdom. My Queen, you are descended from the line of Elessar, but never in the three-and-a-half thousand years of our history has Gondor been ruled by one so young." Elestirnë's eyes had sunk back down to the floor, and Harandor worried that he was losing his listener, but he continued, "Our people are anxious, and those who have some doubt speak openly in the council." _Some doubt…_ In his heart the Steward knew it was something more than that, but he had no evidence and did not wish to trouble Elestirnë with his suspicions. The bare facts seemed troubling enough. "There comes a time," Harandor went on, hoping that it did not sound like he was trying to lecture her, "when a ruler must sacrifice even her grief for her people. I would suggest that you affirm to the people who you are by taking up your father's crown…"

The Steward got no farther, as a choked sob burst from the small girl. Too late, Harandor realized that he should have avoided directly mentioning her father. Glistening tears began to trickle down Elestirnë's pale cheeks, and he knew that it was time for him to depart. "I take my leave" he whispered, and bowing low, the Steward went quietly. Wandering through the almost empty halls of the palace, Harandor wondered how much of what he said Elestirnë had really absorbed. He had tried to understand her, but he was an old man; she was such a young girl. It would have been different had her mother lived. But now Elestirnë was alone, lost in her own anguish and surrounded by distrust.

After a short time of slow walking through the palace, Harandor spotted a familiar figure standing in one of the side corridors. It was a dark haired man, about forty years of age, wearing the black cloak and ornate armor of a high-ranking soldier of Gondor. Harandor managed a slight smile. "My son," he greeted.

"Father," the younger man replied, and returned the smile.

"I was meaning to see you today about the Southern borders," Harandor told his son. "You should reinforce the garrisons in South Gondor and put them on alert. Some of the Haradrim tribes may rise up and raid the border towns when they hear that King Elendur has died."

"When they hear that a twelve year old child sits on the throne!" the younger man cut in, his voice filled with thinly veiled distrust and contempt. Without another word he turned and walked swiftly down the corridor. Harandor stood still in disbelief, tightly gripping his white staff.

"Even my own son," he muttered.

oOo

**Like? Please R&R! I'm open to compliments as well as constructive criticism, and I'd love specifics! Tell me _what_ you loved or didn't love. The more feedback I get, the better the story can be!**


	2. Chapter 2

When she was alone again, Elestirnë sank to her knees, crying until exhaustion overcame her and she slipped into merciful unconsciousness.

When the young queen awoke, she was in her own chambers. Someone had spotted her sound asleep on the floor of the study and brought her here. Elestirnë sat up slowly, pausing to let her feet dangle from the edge of the bed. As she slid lightly to the ground and crossed the room to draw the draperies shut, she chanced to catch a glimpse of her own reflection in the looking glass. The child froze, startled.

Elestirnë did not recognize the girl in the mirror and could only gape at the image in morbid fascination.

The fragile, pale, disordered maiden that stared back at her, draped in folds of black, could not possibly be Faelwen's fair child.

Tentatively, she raised her hand toward the mirror. Elestirnë and the reflection touched fingertips. The young royal flinched and pulled away. Terrified by her own image, Elestirnë turned from the mirror. Tears stung her eyes, but she brutally forced them back.

Slowly, deliberately, the girl forced herself into a chair. Taking up a brush, she methodically began to untangle her dark locks. When she could finally run a brush through them, Elestirnë pulled the locks nearest to her face back into two tiny braids, tying them back with a dark ribbon so they formed a sort of circlet around the back of her head.

The girl splashed her face with cold water from the silver basin at her bedside and dried it with a linen cloth.

Rising, she straightened her long black gown. Steeling herself, Elestirnë turned again to face the mirror.

She was relieved when the queen's daughter greeted her there. Or at least some semblance of her, if you disregarded the eyes. Though somber and without adornments, it was noble maiden that looked back at her now.

Without another thought, Elestirnë vacated the chamber, intent on finding the Steward.  
She found him on the stone terrace outside his apartments. When she first caught sight of him, his back was to her, his hands clasped behind him. He stood looking westward, towards the now lowering sun.

She didn't want to disturb him, but she was so urgent to get through this ordeal before she lost her composure that she did it anyway.

"My Lord…"

The soft words apparently startled the Steward, but not as much as the sight of his young queen. For a brief moment he could only stare, and then he came to his senses and bowed low.

"My Queen."

Harandor was immediately dismayed by the look of distress that came over the girl when he spoke. He could not help but see the resemblance between her expression and that of a lost lamb.

"Please don't call me that…" Elestirnë whispered.

Words of protest were on the tip of his tongue, but he bit them back.

The child came closer, reluctantly, by all appearances. Harandor saw that she was trembling.

The man knelt so he could look her in the eye.

"I beg your forgiveness, dear Steward. You were right; I cannot hide from the world forever. I cannot leave this kingdom in limbo any longer. As to the rule of this kingdom, I shall accept the office, as is my birthright and my duty. But the crown itself, the Winged Crown of Gondor, I will not claim. It shall await a King."

She paused here, struggling with the royal dignity she had apparently forced upon herself.

"Never before have I been witness to a meeting of the White Council. Its functions and proceedings were part of my schooling, but they were never to be any of my concern, as they were not even the concern of my mother. And I must confess, I would not know how to conduct myself if I was present, but I shall need all council that is available to me. I beg your help, my lord."

She asked merely for his help, but it took every once of her self-control not to fall on her knees and beg for him to assume lordship of the city.

Harandor looked at his child queen in wonder. Her first words had been of wisdom, far beyond her years at that. But he saw now that all though her words were spoken with dignity, the voice that spoke them was a child's voice, the voice of a frightened little girl.

"My Queen." the Steward replied, "I shall give you whatever council that you desire to hear. But my first advice shall be to seek another trusted counselor, one who is younger than myself. I am an old man and although I am still hale, it may be that I shall not live to see you come of age to fully rule. When I am gone you must have someone else whom you can look to."

Although such things had to be spoken of, Harandor was worried that talk of death would further upset Elestirnë. But the girl stood firm and listened, making a brave effort not to break down. "Do not fear the future." Harandor told her gently.

"And as to the Council," he went on, switching topics, "I advise that you appear before them as soon as possible, tomorrow if you wish. Speak to them as you have just spoken to me: with courage and strength, and without pride." The Steward paused. Elestirnë had asked for advice on what to say to the Council, but Harandor did not what she should speak himself. King Elendur's advisors had seemed loyal to the line of the kings while he had lived, but now they were doubtful, and in some ways almost resentful of Elestirnë. Or was it the Steward's defense of her that they really resented? At the moment it was impossible for him to tell.

"Just the formal act of calling the Council together is all you really have to do." Harandor started speaking again. "If they put questions to you then answer them plainly, but say no more than you have to." Elestirnë looked at him with a hint of fear in her eyes and Harandor realized that she was deeply worried about difficult questions that might be put to her by the proud men of the Council. "Do not be afraid." the Steward said quickly, "These men are, after all, your subjects and it is not their duty, or their wish, to torment you with hard questions." More likely, Harandor guessed, was that the most outspoken members of the Council would attempt to openly ignore Elestirnë and cast her as irrelevant. The Steward knew that if they were successful they could sway some of the undecided counselors, and he was determined to prevent that if possible.

There was another awkward pause as Harandor tried to think of words, any words, that might be of some help or comfort to his Queen. None were forthcoming. It was difficult talking politics to a twelve-year-old girl, to whom fate had given its cruelest blows. The Council cession would probably be nothing but a trial for her, although some unlooked for good could come of it. Suddenly Harandor felt very old and weary, and although he would not admit it to himself, in his heart he sometimes felt like he was fighting a losing battle and would spend the remainder of his life in the struggle. But throughout his long life Harandor had learned never to despair. Tomorrow, and the Council, might bring unexpected relief.

Several hours later Harandor was once again pacing one of the cavernous halls of the palace buildings. He had given Elestirnë a bit more advice on exactly how to conduct herself before the Council, and then taken his leave. She had wanted more he knew, so much more than he could give her. But it would have to be that way, at least until he could properly judge the motives of certain councilors. And that would have to wait until tomorrow.

In his long years of experience the Steward had learned the hard way never to be too hasty in judging a person. Men always had various conflicting motives and emotions, and oftentimes their actions on the surface did not appear to others to match their professed beliefs. Still, such outright doubt in the Council was something that Harandor had never seen before, or had even dreamed of. If Elestirnë had been of age to rule then he would have called it rebellion.

The Steward tried to list off the Council members that he could count upon, and did not find it very reassuring. There was Brandir, his eldest son. He was close to his father and could always be counted on to support Harandor, without even caring why. But Brandir cared little about politics at all, and that profoundly disappointed Harandor, though he did not show it. He knew that five hundred years ago in the Third Age his eldest son would have been at home. But now he almost seemed trapped out of his proper time; a great warrior in an age of peace.

The Steward still hoped that Beren would lend him support, but his second son seemed to have little faith in his Queen, but more than a little approval of her detractors. In his heart Harandor knew that Beren would disappoint him. It was a hard blow to the old Steward, but he took it quietly.

Prince Vardamir of Dol Amroth would certainly come to the aid of the crown, for his cousin Faelwen had been Elendur's Queen. The household of Dol Amroth contained the only family Elestirnë had left.

Of the Lords of Lamedon, Lebennin, and Lossarnach the Steward had much doubt. Even the envoys from the north and south stretches of Ithilien, whom the Steward thought he knew well, seemed to doubt the child queen. Lord Orophin of Morthrond seemed undecided, though the steward knew him to be an honest man. Harandor hoped to find Orophin and speak with him before the Council was called together.


End file.
